


day nineteen: strip sabacc

by rosyjuly



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Emotional Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyjuly/pseuds/rosyjuly
Summary: Obi-Wan really should’ve known better than agreeing to this.But who could fault him for not saying no when Qui-Gon slyly proposed a game of sabacc, “with different stakes, this time”, watching Obi-Wan with intent over the brim of his glass?His gut tightened in excitement, but Obi-Wan didn’t dare hope just yet. He took a sip, enjoying how the Corellian brandy burnt its way over his tongue, through his throat, twisted his mouth in the way he usually did when he was thinking. But they didn’t do this too often, and he didn’t want to seem too eager.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 108
Collections: Qui and Obi Make a Porno





	day nineteen: strip sabacc

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure: author does not even understand poker, let alone sabacc. you've been warned.  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Obi-Wan really should’ve known better than agreeing to this.

But who could fault him for not saying no when Qui-Gon slyly proposed a game of sabacc, “with different stakes, this time”, watching Obi-Wan with intent over the brim of his glass?

His gut tightened in excitement, but Obi-Wan didn’t dare hope just yet. He took a sip, enjoying how the Corellian brandy burnt its way over his tongue, through his throat, twisted his mouth in the way he usually did when he was thinking. But they didn’t do _this_ too often, and he didn’t want to seem too eager. Obi-Wan had been very careful from the first time to not let on how much it meant to him, how much he loved it, craved it. And not just when they were too tense or in the need for blowing off stream, but all the time.

Anyway. That one half innocent question was the reason why he is sitting on Qui-Gon’s couch with now only his leggings on, his tunics folded in a neat little pile next to him, his socks sitting on top. Qui-Gon, blast him, is still wearing his sleeveless undertunic above his pants, even though Obi-Wan wears more layers than him. He half suspects that the two rounds he’s won were out of pity, or for Qui-Gon’s own entertainment, but he doesn’t really wish to contemplate that thought. It’s humiliating enough as it is.

They show their hands: Qui-Gon has a Pure Sabacc for the third time of the night.

“You’re cheating,” Obi-Wan sighs. He keeps his eyes on the cards, suddenly afraid to face Qui-Gon.

“I taught you all my tricks and tells,” Qui-Gon reminds him, sweeping the cards together. But Obi-Wan hasn’t seen him cheat, tonight: he must’ve kept one last trick to himself, because usually, the games tend to be more balanced. “Besides, that’s not the point. I wish to collect my dues. Strip, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan stares at him for a few seconds, trying to ignore the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. He’s been anticipating this moment since Qui-Gon murmured _Wager that freckled skin of yours, will you?_ , the words more intoxicating than the brandy could ever be. To be the subject of Qui-Gon’s desire was – Obi-Wan can’t believe it, still.

He stands up, willing himself to straighten his back and relax his shoulders, and reaches down to undo the fastenings of his pants. If his hands are trembling just on the edge of desperation, well. They both ignore it.

“Actually,” Qui-Gon speaks again, apparently set on not ignoring Obi-Wan’s traitorous bodily reactions, “get over here.” He spreads his legs in invitation, juts his chin out. Obi-Wan crosses the distance in two short steps, stops right in front of Qui-Gon, his knees pressing into his. Qui-Gon extends a hand, crooks his finger into the waist of Obi-Wan’s pants, tugs him between his spread thighs. Hesitating for a few seconds, Obi-Wan sets his hands on his impossibly wide shoulders. Waits Qui-Gon out.

Suddenly it feels chillier in the room. Qui-Gon runs his hands up to his waist, splays his fingers wide, as if to cover his torso with them. The tips of his fingers are gentle, butterfly-light on Obi-Wan’s skin. He can’t help the shivers. Must be the cold.

Then Qui-Gon leans in, presses his open mouth just shy below his belly button in a damp kiss. Their eyes meet, blue on grey, and Obi-Wan takes a shaky breath. His right hand moves on its own account, cupping Qui-Gon’s nape gently, his fingers slipping between the silky strands of his silvering hair. Qui-Gon presses his face closer, his tongue darts into the dip of Obi-Wan’s belly button, hot and wet. Unable to keep silent, Obi-Wan exhales, the breath too loud in the room.

“Stand still,” Qui-Gon murmurs into his stomach, his hands on Obi-Wan’s sides now squeezing him firmer. He pushes his nose into the ginger trail of hair on his navel, tilting his head as if he can’t get enough of it. Obi-Wan tightens his grip of his hair as he kisses down, following the path of hair, simultaneously loving and hating how much he’s effected already. One of Qui-Gon’s hands tugs his pants down so that his cock can spring free from its confines, and Qui-Gon leans in to lick off a droplet of pre-cum. Obi-Wan can’t help moaning from the silky-hot sensation, pressing down on Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

This is not how he expected this to go, if he’s being honest. Being pushed to his knees, or down onto his back, maybe, that wouldn’t have been surprising. ‘ _I wish to collect my dues_ ,’ Qui-Gon had said. Obi-Wan didn’t think that pleasuring him would be enough of a prize to claim. And yet.

Qui-Gon goes tantalizingly slow, keeps his eyes on Obi-Wan the whole time, as if he’s cataloguing every arch of his eyebrows, twitch of his lips. It’s overwhelming: from the firm hands framing Obi-Wan’s waist, the hot, relentless mouth on his cock to his blue, intense gaze. Then one of his hands slips to the swell of his ass, and Obi-Wan would say it’s rather territorial if he didn’t know better. It takes him all his willpower to keep his hips still, but Qui-Gon told him to, so he must. He’s vaguely aware that he’s leaning too much on Qui-Gon’s shoulder but when he tries to shift, Qui-Gon makes a disapproving sound and pulls off; a glistening trail connecting his bottom lip to the head of Obi-Wan’s cock.

“Stand still,” Qui-Gon repeats, pressing a kiss to the underside of his cock between words for emphasis.

“Let me touch your face,” Obi-Wan whispers, runs his knuckles down on Qui-Gon’s jaw to his stubborn chin. Watches his eyes flutter closed. Then Qui-Gon looks up at him, nods wordlessly. Takes him back into his mouth and sucks him, his cheeks hollowing.

This is not what they usually do. Tonight, there’s no hurry, no haste. No banter between them – barely even words. The weight of every brush of lips and fingers is suddenly tenfold. Obi-Wan, who was afraid of revealing his affections, is suddenly the subject of Qui-Gon’s undivided idolatry.

Qui-Gon’s hand dips between his cheeks, a finger running softly over his hole, teasing. Obi-Wan pants, half-drunk on the brandy and blind, mind-numbing desire. He strokes Qui-Gon’s ear, swipes his thumb down his cheek, to the corner of his stretched mouth. Qui-Gon closes his eyes at that, exhales shakily through his nose. Slowly, he pulls back, swirls his tongue around the crown of Obi-Wan’s dick as if he can’t help himself.

“Take this off,” he says, nodding at Obi-Wan’s pants. His voice is hoarse, deep for he’s spent the last ten minutes with Obi-Wan down his throat. _Force_. Obi-Wan tugs his pants down in impatience, kicks them away. By the time he looks back at Qui-Gon, he’s holding a tube of slick. Without thinking, Obi-Wan straddles him: kneels on either side of his strong thighs and leans in, touches their foreheads together.

Qui-Gon’s eyes are dark with lust. His temple is damp from perspiration and his breath is shaky, still.

“Kiss me,” Obi-Wan says, a demand and a plea. Before the word is even out, Qui-Gon’s lips are on his: scorching and bitter from the bandy and _blast_ , Obi-Wan can taste himself on his tongue. He moans into Qui-Gon’s mouth, well-aware that he’s far from the collected Knight he prides himself on being, but unable to care. Qui-Gon must drop the lube on the couch because his hands are back, bracketing his ribs, his sides, stroking and squeezing. In this fleeting desire, it’s as if those large hands are his only anchor in the present. He palms Qui-Gon’s chest, but it’s still covered in his undertunic, a crime punishable with – he’ll have to think about that later, but a crime nonetheless. Running his hands down on Qui-Gon’s lean torso, finally he finds the seam and breaks the kiss to tug the tunic off. Then he reaches down and starts undoing the fastenings of the pants. He has to shift back on Qui-Gon’s thigh, and Qui-Gon’s hands slide down to palm his ass.

“Lube?” At his question, Qui-Gon looks at him sharply; it’s dizzying. Then one of his hands disappear for a few seconds as Obi-Wan finally undoes his pant and gets his cock out. Now, the tip of Qui-Gon’s finger is less teasing: it circles around his hole once, twice, before pressing down and _in_. It feels good, it always does: anticipation and desire melt in his stomach and he has to press the side of his head to Qui-Gon’s to ground himself and to make sure that he can’t see just how deep Obi-Wan is in. He strokes Qui-Gon to full hardness, swipes his thumb over the crown just how he likes it, rubs a pearl of pre-cum over the head. Qui-Gon crooks his fingers and sends a shiver of pleasure down Obi-Wan’s spine.

“Come on,” he grits out, squeezing Qui-Gon’s cock. He shifts on his knees, upwards, to signal his intentions, but Qui-Gon doesn’t let him go.

“Obi-Wan,” he starts, and suddenly Obi-Wan can’t bear the thousand different layers of emotions in the syllables of his own name.

“Now, Qui-Gon,” he says, or pleads, he cannot know. It must be convincing enough: Qui-Gon nods, presses a kiss to his temple. Pulls his fingers out and squeezes some slick on his cock.

When Obi-Wan finally sinks down on him, he swears he can see stars. No hyperspace jump can ever live up to the vividity of this moment. Qui-Gon’s hands frame his hips, merely helping him keep his balance as Obi-Wan moves with tantalizing slowness. Blast, but he’s forgotten how big Qui-Gon is. This, this is one of the things he craves: the need to be overwhelmed, his senses stimulated to the point where everything else becomes irrelevant, a white noise in his head, blissful silence. Then Qui-Gon catches his mouth is a wet, sloppy kiss: this, he yearns as well. The closeness of Qui-Gon, his attention, his affection. Anything he’s willing to offer, Obi-Wan will take. He’s greedy like that. He aches for this, the sync of their heartbeats, the mingling of their breath, Qui-Gon’s hair curling over their shoulders.

Qui-Gon shifts his hips, starts meeting Obi-Wan’s movements with his own. They’ve never fucked like this, before: usually Obi-Wan is on his knees, arching his spine; or on his back, his legs thrown over Qui-Gon’s shoulders. And sure, being bent in half has its intensity, but to watch Qui-Gon face from half an inch, share a breath while Obi-Wan rides him is something else entirely. Then Qui-Gon fucks up into him and Obi-Wan cries out in pleasure. Qui-Gon takes hold of his hips, stilling him and Obi-Wan can’t do anything but hold onto his shoulders as Qui-Gon begins to fuck him in earnest. Their chests are plastered together with sweat and slick and Qui-Gon’s breath is erratic, probably matching his own. Somehow Obi-Wan manages to lift his hand enough to fist it into Qui-Gon’s hair and tugs firmly, coaxing out a groan. Qui-Gon swears, takes his other arm and pins it behind his back while keeping up the hard, punishing rhythm. Now unable to hold his full weight up, Obi-Wan sags against the strong chest, past caring about the noises he makes. He’s completely under Qui-Gon’s mercy, like this: Qui-Gon can fuck him as hard and fast as he desires. Obi-Wan feels his orgasm building up behind his eyelids, the familiar spark running down his spine. He comes untouched, with Qui-Gon’s name on his lips. Qui-Gon grunts and fucks him through it, keeps going even when Obi-Wan’s spent between their navels and Obi-Wan loves him for it, can only hold on and close his eyes and breathe through it. When his rhythm becomes erratic, Obi-Wan tugs at his hair again, presses his face into the crook of his neck and bites down. Qui-Gon’s hips stutter, and then he’s coming with a guttural sound, right into Obi-Wan. Were he ten years younger, just the fact would be enough to make him hard again. Now, his dick only twitches, kicking out the last string of cum like an afterthought.

They stay still as their breathing evens out, foreheads touching, eyes closed. Obi-Wan is almost afraid to look at him again. It feels like whatever their understanding of – of this was, it’s shifted. And he doesn’t know how.

Qui-Gon kisses his cheek, the tip of his nose. Obi-Wan is many things, but he is not a coward, so he stops stalling and opens his eyes. Qui-Gon’s never been more beautiful: he looks ten years younger, carefree. He looks happy. Obi-Wan traitorous heart sings.

“I still know you cheated,” he rasps out. Qui-Gon laughs and he can feel the vibrations in his chest. It’s glorious.

“For this?” Qui-Gon asks. “For you? Of course I cheated.”

“What great lengths you go to, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan says, kissing the corner of his mouth in a sudden wave of shyness. “But you needn’t. Don’t you know it?”

“Know what, Obi-Wan?” His tone is urgent, hot, as if he can’t hear the answer soon enough. Qui-Gon’s hands are kneading his back.

“That you have me. Whenever you want. For as long as you want me.”

One of those hands come up to his chin, gently tipping his head until their eyes meet.

“And you, Obi-Wan, have me. However you take me, you have me.”

“On one condition,” Obi-Wan says, giddy with joy, as he lets Qui-Gon murmur _anything_ between kisses. “You teach me that trick.”


End file.
